


Interlude

by smallhorizons



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Autistic Jonathan Sims, Bittersweet, Canon Asexual Character, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Minor canon divergence, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Post-MAG 094: Dead Woman Walking, gay stammering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22444657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons/pseuds/smallhorizons
Summary: GEORGIE: You must be Martin.MARTIN: Yeah. Has Melanie been talking about me?GEORGIE: Oh, um ... Jon used to go on about you a lot.- MAG 149In which Jon reluctantly takes a self-care day, comes to an unwelcome conclusion about Feelings, and makes a decision.Or, what if Georgie and Martin actually talked prior to season 4?
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 232
Kudos: 2396





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in large part by tapeclicksoff's Tumblr post about Martin FaceTiming Jon while Jon and Georgie are watching a documentary, written and shared with the poster's permission. Thanks for letting me run with your idea!
> 
> Much thanks to the Magnus Writers' Discord for their feedback. An extra special thank you to Rustkid, without whom this fic would undoubtedly have suffered, for her incredible beta work and for being a tubular human being.
> 
> Kudos & comments make my heart seven sizes bigger (in the best way possible), and are always, always appreciated. I'd love to hear what you think!

Georgie won’t let him go to the Archives.

“You _literally_ just got back from, _one_ ,” Georgie says, counting out on her fingers, “having your hand burned to a crisp, _two_ , being flung through the air at terminal velocity, _three_ , seeing a man get shot to death in front of you, _four_ , almost being killed by a, a madwoman with a blunt knife, _five_ , being forced to dig the grave for said man killed right in front of you, and then, cherry on top of all of it, in _one_ conversation, got confirmation that your boss killed two people, has bound you to his spooky Institute, and wants you to save the world, and, oh, yeah, you’re maybe turning into a monster!”

“You don’t need to tell me what happened, I was _there_ for all of it,” Jon mutters. Then, adopting his most pleading voice, he says, “Georgie, I told you, I _need_ to—”

“What you _need_ to do is take _care_ of yourself _._ When’s the last time you even took a shower? You’ve still got grave dirt in your hair.”

Jon opens his mouth. He shuts it. He self-consciously combs his unharmed fingers through his hair and examines the dirt left on his hand. “Erm,” he says.

“Right,” Georgie says, “That’s decided, then. You’re taking a shower, putting on clean clothes, and then we’re making hot cocoa and watching something on telly until you pass out.”

Jon sighs. He lets his bag slip from his shoulders, and he sulks off to the bathroom.

She’s not wrong, he supposes. It _has_ been a hell of a week.

* * *

He’s too unsteady to stand in the shower, despite sleeping for nearly sixteen hours the night before after taking Georgie’s statement. He sits slumped on the floor instead, clumsily washing his hair and body with his one functioning hand. The other he keeps cradled to his chest, carefully out of the way of the spray of lukewarm water. After standing just long enough to rinse off properly, he sinks back down to the floor and sits with his knees drawn to his chest, staring at the silver temperature knobs and trying very hard not to think of anything at all.

Toweling off is equally clumsy. The mere texture against his burned hand is enough to have him gritting his teeth and fighting back a whimper. Dressing is even worse.

Afterward, taking a deep breath, he looks cautiously into the mirror.

The long, shallow cut Daisy left on his throat has scabbed over, and a truly horrendous bruise in the vague shape of her hand is blooming around his neck, purples and blues so dark they look almost fake. His silvering worm scars speckle the bruise, crawl up out of the darkness of the bruising on his neck to his jaw and cheeks. They’re obvious against his ragged salt-and-pepper stubble, areas of bare pockmarked skin where scar tissue prevents hair growth. His cheekbones, his tendons, even the hollow of his throat, seem to be more prominent than he vaguely recalls them having been, the shadows they cast starker. His hair is overlong, reaching past his jaw, and despite the dampness darkening it to a glossy black he can vividly see the streaks of gray at his temples.

He meets his reflection’s eyes. The same large, dark irises, the same thick eyelashes, the same slightly hooded lids. The same purplish shadows beneath them, his perpetual companions since he began work in the Archives, though deeper, darker.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He doesn’t look like a monster. He just—he just looks like _shit_.

Jon laughs shakily, a sound that might grow into a sob, if he lets it. Instead, he swallows it down and turns away from the mirror.

* * *

Georgie is waiting for him on the living room couch with a stack of blankets and two steaming cups of cocoa resting on the worn wooden surface of her coffee table.

“Better?” she asks as he enters the room, trying not to shuffle his steps.

“I think so,” Jon says. “No more grave dirt, at the least.”

“Hm.”

Georgie casts a critical eye over him, and he lets her, even though her gaze makes him want to squirm. He is so tired of being watched. He stares over her shoulder and lets her take her fill.

“You really need to get some new clothes,” Georgie says finally. “Not that I care if you keep wearing _What The Ghost_ merch, mind you, just. Those joggers? _Way_ too big for you.”

Jon reflexively looks down at his joggers—Georgie’s joggers, rather. They are, indeed, much too large on him. He and Georgie are nearly the same height, but he was scrawny even before paranoia and stress ruined his appetite, and she’s always been pleasantly soft. 

“Well,” Jon says, “Martin says he managed to get some of the things from my old flat put in storage before the landlord ‘evicted’ me. Suppose I’ll have to wait to see if he managed to save any of my clothes.”

With a lurch, he thinks of his sea glass collection, the one remnant of his childhood he’s held onto fondly, fiercely. His only clear memory of his mother is walking together on the beach, hands clasped, as she carefully picked up pieces of glass from the sand and waves, warning him to only touch the ones she had first approved. Not listening, he had grabbed at the first glimmer of glass on the beach he had seen and cut himself quite badly on his pointer finger and thumb. He had been too surprised to cry, but he still remembers the sharp flash of pain settling into a dull throb, the red dripping onto the sand, the gentleness of his mother’s touch as she cradled his injured hand in both of hers.

Georgie is saying something. He blinks, focuses on her words. “—about him before. He’s been looking out for you for a while now, hasn’t he.” Not a question—a statement. There’s something in her voice that makes his stomach tighten.

“Martin?” Jon asks, brow furrowing. “Ah, I—I suppose so, yes.” Then, hazarding a guess at what Georgie had said, stomach coiling uneasily, he continues, “I-I, I didn’t realize I’d talked about him.”

“Oh, just a bit,” Georgie says breezily. “I get the impression he’s on your mind a lot, is all.” Then, “Telly?”

“Right, yes,” Jon says, feeling oddly wrong-footed. He watches Georgie out of the corner of his eye as he settles, convinced she’s got something else to say, but she just tucks herself under a blanket and pushes the rest towards Jon before picking up the remote and opening Netflix.

Jon wraps himself in a quilted blanket, and after a moment of consideration drapes another over his crossed legs. Then he carefully picks up the mug of cocoa one-handed and settles back into the couch.

“What do you think?” Georgie says after a moment. “Documentary?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer before clicking on the genre and scrolling through their options. She points out titles she finds interesting, and Jon makes appropriate humming noises, sipping slowly at his cocoa, a sense of unreality building around him. He can’t remember the last time he just … watched something, let alone curled up under a blanket with a mug of cocoa, with a _friend_. Certainly not since his promotion. Longer? He was never much good at making friends, and keeping them is another matter entirely. The heat of the cocoa suffuses his throat, his chest. He stares into the mug and hugs his elbows tight to his sides. When is the last time he even spent time with someone who wasn’t Georgie? Those lunches with Martin, he supposes, flushing as he thinks of the exasperated look on Martin’s face as he strong-armed Jon into leaving the Institute to get a sandwich at the cafe or curry from the place a few streets over. Does that count? He had gone along with Martin because he knew Martin wouldn’t stop fussing over him otherwise, but even in the depths of his paranoia, those lunches with Martin were … nice. 

A prolonged _mrrow_ brings him solidly back to Georgie’s flat, and a moment later the Admiral hops up onto the cushions between Jon and Georgie. “Hello, Admiral,” Jon says, and he carefully balances the mug between his crossed legs before scratching gently at the Admiral’s cheek.

“Watch out for your mug with the Admiral,” Georgie says absentmindedly, “that stain on the armrest is because of him.” And then, “What about this one?”

“Don’t care. You choose,” Jon says. He holds his hand loosely in front of the Admiral, and can’t prevent his small smile when the Admiral sniffs at his fingers and then pushes his face fully against his palm.

Georgie says, “You forfeit the right to complain, then,” and selects a nature documentary. Jon absentmindedly pets the Admiral as the show begins to play, focusing more on the feel of his warm fur and the minute vibrations of his purring than the screen.

“Georgie,” Jon says, a few minutes in, “I don’t—ah. What were … Was there something else you wanted to say? Earlier? About Martin?”

“Nope,” Georgie says easily. She reaches over and scratches at the base of the Admiral’s tail. The Admiral meows and arches into her touch. Georgie doesn’t look away from the screen.

“Right,” Jon says, faltering. A few more moments pass in silence. The Admiral butts at Jon’s hand, and Jon obediently resumes his petting. “It’s just, it sounded like there was—more?”

“Nope,” Georgie says again, popping the P.

Jon feels the scowl twitching at his mouth, tries not to let it show. “Are you _sure_?” he persists, and he doesn’t mean to put power behind it but the words vibrate down to the roots of his teeth and he knows before it leaves his mouth that it comes out Wrong.

“Of _course_ I have something else to say, but it doesn’t seem like you’re ready to hear it, so I’m not going to bother.”

“I—what?” Jon asks, baffled, and Georgie says, “Wait …” and Jon says, “Oh, God, Georgie, I’m really—” and Georgie says, “S _eriously_?” and Jon continues, “—sorry, I didn’t mean,” and Georgie holds up her palm and says, “Shut up, Jon,” and Jon shuts up.

“You,” Georgie says, “are a disaster.”

Jon sputters. “I’m _sorry_?”

Georgie heaves a dramatic sigh, head falling back onto the couch as she rolls her eyes. “Jon, you’ve been staying here more than two months now, little _misadventure_ aside. Do you want to guess how many times you’ve brought up Martin? Go on—guess.”

“Ah, I don’t—a, a couple of times? I suppose?”

“Sure,” Georgie says. Jon’s shoulders slump in something that feels almost like relief, and then she adds, “A couple of times _a day_. You know, I didn’t even know the names of the other people at the Institute until Melanie started complaining about them? But right from the start, Oh, my assistant Martin, I don’t know how he does it but tea always tastes better when he makes it, Martin once lent me his jumper when I left mine at home and I had to roll up the sleeves three times because it was so large on me, isn’t that absolutely ridiculous, Martin’s cute when he—”

“I-I never—I never said _that_ ,” Jon stammers, face hot. “I wouldn’t—Martin isn’t—he’s just a, a, he’s, we _work_ together, that’s all.”

“Oh, so when you grumped about how Martin’s always pushing his hair out of his eyes because it’s getting too long, and it’s _very_ distracting, you _weren’t_ thinking about how cute he is?”

“Of course not! It’s, it’s just—unprofessional!”

Georgie shrugs. “Okay, then,” she says, and she turns back to the documentary. She starts rewinding.

Jon stares at her. “‘Okay, then.’ _‘Okay, then’_?” he demands. “That’s it?”

“Yup,” Georgie says.

“But—”

Georgie heaves a sigh and pauses in her rewinding. “Look,” she says, “if nothing’s going on, then nothing’s going on. It just seems, to me, personally, from an outside perspective, that maybe there _is_ something going on.”

“Well, there isn’t,” Jon says shortly, and Georgie says, “Okay,” and Jon says, “Good,” and Georgie presses play.

They watch for several more minutes.

“What do you _mean_ , ‘maybe there’s something going on?’” Jon blurts out. “I-I mean, what—what makes you think that there’s, ah, _something_?”

“You already said there wasn’t,” Georgie points out, “so why do you care if I think otherwise?”

“I don’t,” Jon says reflexively. 

Onscreen, a flock of birds burst over the trees.

“I’m just—I’m just curious, I suppose,” Jon says. He takes his hand from the Admiral’s warm back, to Admiral’s disappointed _mrrroww_ , and takes a sip of lukewarm cocoa to hide his face.

“Tough,” Georgie says. “David Attenborough is teaching me about birds.”

Jon huffs. He drains the rest of his cocoa and settles back into the couch again, running the fingers of his good hand slowly along the fraying edge of the blanket. It’s absurd, of course. Whatever Georgie’s thinking, it’s just speculation and idle fancy. Of course Jon’s mentioned Martin. It’s not as though he knows many people, and of the people Jon regularly interacts with outside of Georgie, Martin is the only one left who actually seems to like him. Or, at least, not blame him for ruining his life.

Jon tugs the blanket a little closer around his shoulders, stomach curdling.

He’ll admit that Martin has grown into something like—well, like a friend. Jon may be a recluse, but he knows what _friendship_ looks like. And since it’s quite clear now that Martin had no … sinister ulterior motives in, in bringing him tea and inviting him out to lunch and looking out for his well being, Jon can see no reason why Martin would have done those things other than that, for some mind-boggling reason, Martin … thinks of him as a friend, too. Jon has no idea _why_ , of course. It’s not as though he’s been particularly good to Martin. Or even just … _not awful_.

Jon clutches the blanket, throat suddenly tight. Because he _has_ been awful, hasn’t he? Oh, he never insulted Martin directly to his face, aside from the whole _dog_ incident, but he was dismissive, curt, had made no attempt to hide his irritation at Martin’s—well, at _Martin_. He’d been _glad_ when Martin was out “sick.” Annoyed at the strange text messages, the refusal to answer his phone calls.

And Martin had come storming into the Archives with a jar of worms, and he had said, “I wanted proof _for you_ ,” and Jon had told himself it wasn’t his fault Martin had decided he was finally going to make up for his lax work ethics—but _for you, for you, for you_ pulses in time with Jon’s heartbeat and he feels _sick_.

Jon swallows hard. He rubs at the blanket’s seam between forefinger and thumb, trying to focus on the differences in texture between thread and fabric. He had been awful, and he had been derisive, and he had nearly gotten Martin killed. He had nearly gotten _all_ of them killed.

Jon realizes he is starting to rock back and forth, the way he used to when he was a child, the way he always wants to when his mind is too fast or the world is too loud. He stills himself, presses his shoulders back against the couch straight as he can make them. 

It doesn’t matter. Prentiss is dead, and Sasha is dead, and Tim hates him, and Martin _should_ hate him, and Jon can’t protect any of them—

“Oh my _god_ ,” Georgie says. Jon flinches, hand tightening in the Admiral’s fur until the Admiral makes a drawn-out sound in protest. 

“What?” Jon says, heart throbbing in his throat. “What’s wrong?”

Georgie points. Jon looks at her hand for a moment, uncomprehending, and then follows her pointer finger toward the screen. He struggles for a moment to put together what he is seeing: Attenborough, attempting to narrate over the warbling and enthusiastic dancing of a large brown-and-yellow bird of paradise.

“Oh,” Jon says faintly, feeling suddenly drained. “Yes. Very, um. Funny.”

He can feel Georgie looking at him. “You alright?” she asks. “S’just, you’re looking a little.” Movement in the corner of his eye—just Georgie gesturing, but Jon’s shoulders tense anyway. “Distant,” Georgie continues.

“I’m fine,” Jon says reflexively. Then, amending himself, forcing a wry tone, “Tired, I suppose.”

“Falling asleep to Sir Attenborough’s dulcet tones?” Georgie teases. Her fingers touch his as she pets the Admiral, and his fingers spasm in a minute flinch. He withdraws his hand, cradles it in his lap.

“I suppose,” Jon says again. He attempts a smile. Tries to focus on the screen, reconcile the moving colors and shapes with something that makes sense.

“If you’re sure,” Georgie says distantly, and Jon manages to say, “I am,” and Georgie hums, and the colors on the screen shift and blur. Jon blinks hard, wondering vaguely if there’s something wrong with his eyes.

He’s rocking again. Minutely, almost rhythmic tremors more than a proper back-and-forth. Tries to focus on his breathing. Did Martin do this? Clutch at himself and at his corkscrew, trembling on the cot in the storage room, unable to rest?

Jon wants to press his fist against his mouth and bite down on his knuckle until the bone grinds beneath his skin, but it would worry Georgie, and he is so heavy.

He settles for flexing his injured hand, open and shut and open again, until the burn alights with an echo of the searing pain Jude gifted him with. It’s almost enough to stifle the guilt. 

* * *

Jon barely makes it half an hour more through the documentary before the sluggish weight of his thoughts drags him into an uneasy sleep. He dozes intermittently through a spattering of documentaries he’s hardly cognizant enough to recognize before waking up more fully to Georgie clattering around in the kitchen. He checks his phone for the time, squinting at the screen blearily through the sleep hazing his eyes. Half one. He stifles a yawn and thinks about getting up to help Georgie, but the Admiral has made a home of his lap, so he isn’t going anywhere any time soon.

He dozes off again and this time he dreams, disjointed things made of mist and soil and the persistent, tugging feeling of being watched. He is in darkness, feeling for a door, the dull roar of a waterfall echoing in his bones. Water is lapping at his ankles, slow and viscous. The darkness is so thick it is almost choking. His hand falls onto a knob, frigid against his palm, and he has barely twisted it before he is falling to his knees on asphalt. He gets up. He is walking along the motorway, soaked to the bone from pounding rain he can’t feel. The lilt of a low, moaning melody carries him forward. The asphalt crumbles beneath his feet, gives way to mud, and he doesn’t stumble as he begins to weave his way through a fog-drenched graveyard. Open graves yawn at him from within the muted darkness. They are not for him. There is something he’s looking for. There is something he needs to see. He turns and Martin is there, digging into the earth with a determined frown on his face. He wipes his brow. “Oh, hello,” he says. “Are you almost ready for sleep?” and Jon climbs into the grave Martin has dug for him and he watches Martin’s warm face until the dirt has covered him completely.

Jon startles awake, flailing until he realizes that he has tipped over onto his side and gotten tangled in the blankets, cheek smushed awkwardly against the arm of the couch. The Admiral, disturbed from his lap, meows piteously at him and leaps off the couch.

“Alright there?” Georgie asks. A new documentary is playing, camera meandering through an underground cavern. Jon swallows.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I’m—Just a dream. I’m fine.”

“Hm.”

Jon slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, hand resting over his chest like it can somehow keep his thundering heart from beating free of his rib cage.

“You were drooling, by the way.”

“What?”

“You were drooling. Don’t worry, I definitely did not take several dozen pictures.”

Jon just barely resists the urge to scowl at her. “Thanks for that,” he mutters.

“I aim to please,” Georgie says cheerfully. She nods at Jon’s phone, which at some point must have slid off his lap and onto the floor. “You got a couple texts, I think.”

“Hm? Oh.” Jon goes to rub at his eyes with his bad hand, hisses at the pain when the blistered skin meets his brow. “Christ,” Jon mutters, and he curls his injured hand loosely at his chest so he isn’t tempted to use it again. 

Jon reaches for his phone just as it starts buzzing. _Martin Blackwood would like to FaceTime_ , his screen announces. Jon’s mind goes blank and only begins to function again when Martin’s worried face fills his screen, one curl of dark hair flopped over onto his forehead. Jon stares at it, barely listening as Martin says, “Oh, Christ, sorry, I just meant to call—”

“Ah, n-no, it’s fine,” Jon says reflexively, and then he scrubs at his cheek, wondering if Martin can see the tacky residue of drool at the corner of his mouth. He hopes not. He can’t pick out Martin’s freckles, so he thinks he should be okay. “It’s—do you need something?” It comes out brusque, clipped, and Jon winces at himself. Georgie kicks his foot. Vaguely, he notices she’s paused the documentary.

“Um, Elias said you were taking a few days to settle—”

“ _Did_ he, now,” Jon mutters sourly. Georgie kicks his foot again.

“—and I didn’t want to … um. Jon, did I—were you asleep?”

“Sort of,” Jon says. “I—Don’t worry,” he hastens to add, because Georgie is drawing her foot back again, and because he can _see_ Martin getting ready to apologize, “I was already awake, just—not very far along in the process.”

“Right,” Martin says. “I’m, um, I’m glad you’re getting some rest. I should just let you go, honestly, you look—ah …”

“Terrible?” Jon guesses, stomach twisting.

Martin flushes. “No, no, I didn’t—you, you look fine! Lovely, even, you just—oh, god. Jon, your _neck_.”

Jon, tugging at the collar of his _What The Ghost_ hoodie so he can scratch mindlessly at the scabbing wound, freezes. “Ah,” he says.

“I didn’t realize it was so _bad_ ,” Martin says, voice high. “Are you okay? No, stupid question, of course you’re not okay—”

“No, really, Martin, it’s fine, it looks worse than it is,” Jon cuts in, tugging at the hoodie so his throat is covered again. “I’m okay.” And then, because he recognizes the dubious expression on Martin’s face, he rushes to add, “I-I—it’s good to—um to, to check in with you. A-about work, I mean.”

_Christ._

Jon very pointedly does not look at Georgie.

“Oh,” Martin says, brow furrowing into a puzzled line. “Um. Good?”

“Right,” Jon says, and then neither of them says anything for a short while. “So, um. Why are you … ?”

“Oh! Right. Sorry. Just got—distracted.” Martin laughs nervously and pushes his hair out of his face. Jon’s stomach swoops. He _does not look_ at Georgie. “Anyway, um, Elias came by and sort of … made a fuss about the state of the Archives? Said we needed to get things in order for when you get back. I mean, I’ve been doing my best, but Tim hasn’t really—and Melanie … anyway. I had a few questions for you about your files—you, um, were kind of … not the … most organized? The last couple months before … ah … ”

Martin trails off, grimacing.

“Before our boss framed me for murder?” Jon says dryly. 

“Don’t you mean murd _ers_ , plural?” Martin asks, and then he visibly winces and says, “Right, maybe too soon to joke about—”

“No, no, it’s fine, you’re fine,” Jon says hastily, feeling very warm. He clears his throat. Files. Statements. Yes, good, he can—he can handle that, even with Georgie watching him, her words, _maybe there’s something going on_ , _he’s been watching out for you for a long time, hasn’t he_ , pulsing in the back of his head. “So,” he says, a little weakly, “What questions do you have?”

They fall into the work easily, Martin asking clarifying questions on Jon’s notes regarding statements they’ve already recorded, jotting down Jon’s directions as to sources he wants them to start looking into, names to watch out for. At some point Georgie gets up to head into the kitchen, taking her dirty dishes with her as she goes. Jon and Martin briefly squabble about Jon’s haphazardly organized office—“ _Why_ are your reference books sorted by _publication date_ ,” Martin groans, and Jon launches into an explanation of easy access to reference books in dialogue with each other—and it is so _normal_ that Jon finds himself relaxing for the first time all day. He’s feeling almost level-headed when Martin, tongue poking out between his teeth as he scribbles intently, looks up, falters, and says, “Oh, uh—hi?”

“Hi?” Jon parrots, baffled, and then he yelps when Georgie, directly next to his ear, says, “Hi!”

Jon turns his head and Georgie is _right there_ , elbows on the back of the couch and head in one hand, leaning over Jon to look at his phone. “ _Christ_ , Georgie, don’t _do_ that,” Jon snaps, tries to snap, except it comes out more as a breathless plea.

“Sorry, old man, did I give you a heart attack?” Georgie teases. Jon scowls at her, face hot.

“Sorry,” Martin is saying, “I didn’t—um, I didn’t realize you were, um, with someone? I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

Georgie flaps her hand dismissively, right next to Jon’s face. “Could you please _not_ ,” Jon grumbles, unable to look at either her or Martin, but Georgie ignores him.

“It’s alright,” Georgie says to Martin. “He’s been boring, anyway. Mostly sleeping. Bit like a cat, honestly. Talking to you is the most animated he’s been all day.”

Jon clears his throat. His ears feel like they’re glowing. “ _Anyway_ ,” he cuts in. “Ah, Martin, this is my friend, Georgie. Georgie, this is my Martin.”

There’s a long pause.

“Um,” Martin says, very high-pitched, and Georgie starts to smile, and Jon replays that last sentence in his head. And again. And one more time.

A strangled sound threatens to burst out from Jon’s throat, and he clamps a hand—his _burned_ hand—over his mouth to prevent it from escaping. He barely even notices the pain, because he’s already babbling through his fingers, “I-I-I mean to say, ah, Georgie, this is my, my _assistant_ , Martin, we’re just—um, we, we work together, in the Archives, I must’ve—um, I-I, surely I’ve, um, mentioned him, a-and Tim, of course, and, ah—”

“Somehow,” Georgie says, voice cutting in over Jon’s panicked stammering, “you look _exactly_ like how I pictured, Martin.”

“What?” Martin says.

“Oh, Jon talks about you a lot. Kind of feel like I know you already.”

“ _What_?” Martin says again, sounding very faint. Jon _feels_ faint.

“Oh, yeah,” Georgie continues easily. “It’s really nice to meet you in person. Kind of in person, anyway. Honestly, it’s a bit of a relief, I almost thought Jon was making you up to pretend he actually had friends.”

“ _Georgie_ ,” Jon hisses.

“ _Jonathan_ ,” Georgie sing-songs back. She climbs over the back of the couch and deposits herself next to Jon with a little _oof_ , kneeing Jon in the side as she gets her legs out from under herself. “Anyway,” Georgie continues, “I feel like I should thank you for taking care of this lug. From what he says, it seems like you’ve been looking after him for quite a while now.”

“Oh. Um, you’re—welcome?” Martin says, again in that high-pitched, faint voice.

“I can take care of myself just fine,” Jon mutters, withdrawing deeper into his nest of blankets with a scowl. Neither Martin nor Georgie say anything. He looks first at Martin’s face, then at Georgie’s. “What?” he demands. “I _can_.”

“Anyway,” Martin says after a long pause. “I, ah. Like I said. I didn’t realize you were staying with someone.” He chuckles, and it sounds … off. “Didn’t even know you had any friends outside the Institute, honestly,” he continues.

“Oh, we were friends in uni,” Georgie says. “Lost touch, didn’t talk for, what—seven years? Then one night a couple months ago my doorbell rings and there he is, looking like he’s about to keel over, saying he’d he lost his flat, he doesn’t want to bother me but he has nowhere else to go.” She shrugs.

“Right,” Martin says. Flat. The tone itches at Jon.

“What was it you said?” Georgie asks Jon, tone casual. “There was a ‘ _workplace dispute_ ’?”

“I-I mean, I wasn’t exactly lying,” Jon says slowly, unsure where Georgie is taking this. Georgie knows exactly what he said. She’s thrown it in his face enough, the last few months, for being so suspicious.

“Right. Anyway, didn’t you say you couldn’t go to any of your coworkers because they were involved too?”

“Well, it’s not like anyone except Martin would have even been willing to help,” Jon says, baffled.

“And he would’ve been first on the police’s radar, exactly, I remember now,” Georgie finishes, turning her head to beam, sunny, at Martin.

Martin’s face is pink. “Oh, right, of, of course,” he says, stumbling over his words. “I never thought you did it, obviously, you just—you _wouldn’t_. And, I mean, I wouldn’t have said anything. Not to anyone.” He says this last part firmly, so sincere the truth of it sinks deep into the marrow of Jon’s bones.

“I know,” Jon says, because he does know, sure as any fact. “But I—it wouldn’t have been fair to you, Martin, I couldn’t—” he breaks off with a sigh. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

Martin smiles, a small thing that makes Jon go warm, and Jon can’t quite stop the helpless quirk of his mouth in return. Martin’s shoulders relax, and Jon realizes with a start just how tense he had been, shoulders nearly at his ears, mouth a tight line. He glances at Georgie. She is smirking, just a little, and Jon’s face heats up more.

“Anyway, it’s been nice having someone around to complain about my bad dates with,” Georgie says with a dramatic sigh. “I have _not_ been having good luck lately.”

Jon clears his throat, trying to shake himself out of the gentleness of Martin’s smile. “What, Hungarian Mountain Man didn’t do it for you?”

“Sorry, Hungarian Mountain Man?” Martin chimes in, and he’s sounding more like himself now, lighter.

“She went on a date with an absolute dullard just so she could eat Hungarian food,” Jon explains dryly.

“And I stand by that decision!”

“Seems like a lot of trouble to go through just to get Hungarian food,” Martin says dubiously.

“You underestimate just how passionate Georgie is about shopska salad.”

Georgie flaps her hand dismissively. “Whatever. I got a free meal, _and_ leftovers, from it, so: worth it.”

“Very sneaky,” Martin says with a little grin that shows a flash of teeth and the start of a dimple on one cheek.

“That’s one word for it,” Jon mutters.

“Another is ‘brilliant,’ of course,” Georgie says. She smiles at Martin, the smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes and radiates sincerity. “Anyway, I’ve got work to do; _What The Ghost_ won’t record itself! Martin, it’s been really nice meeting you. I can see why Jon likes you so much.”

Martin’s pink cheeks turn a shade of red which makes Jon’s stomach flop. “Oh,” he says, “That’s—um, thanks? It was—it was nice to meet you, too.”

Georgie unfolds herself from the couch and stretches. “I’ll be in the recording studio if you need me,” she says to Jon. Then she leans down, waves at Jon’s phone, and says, “Bye, Martin!”

“Bye,” Martin echoes. Georgie straightens up, winks at Jon, and leaves to head upstairs, and then Jon and Martin are alone.

“Sooo,” Martin says. “She seems—nice?”

“Oh, um, yes,” Jon says. “She’s a, a good friend. You know, for letting me stay here.”

“I’m—I’m glad you had somewhere to stay,” Martin says. “I was worried that …” He bites at his lower lip, and Jon watches the flash of teeth, the tension between his eyebrows. The curl of hair once again falling over his forehead. “Doesn’t matter,” Martin says with a sigh. “Though I suppose I _was_ right to worry,” he adds, eyes drifting towards Jon’s neck.

Jon clears his throat. “I mean—I’m okay, though,” he protests. “It’s, it’s healing alright, I mean.”

“And your hand? Don’t think I didn’t notice that.”

“Ah—well, I, I can use it, sort of. Not—not _well_ , exactly, but it’s—really, Martin, I’m _okay_. I’m _fine_.”

“That _really_ isn’t as reassuring as you think it is,” Martin sighs. “I just _worry._ ” Jon bristles, face heating.

“Nobody asked you to,” Jon snaps.

“I can’t exactly _turn it off,_ ” Martin says hotly. “I mean, Christ, Jon, _look_ at you!”

Jon flinches. He tucks his injured hand closer to his chest, trying to hide it in the folds of his hoodie. There’s nothing he can do about the scars on his face or the dark smudges beneath his eyes. He laughs, just once, bitterly. “Yes, well,” he says, “ _Thank you_ , I’d forgotten how awful I am to look at.”

“I—Jon that’s not …” Martin trails off. He’s biting his lower lip. “You’re not—you’re not _awful_ to look at, Jon, god, of course you’re not, but you keep getting _hurt_ , of _course_ I worry. How could I _not_? I—I just want you to be okay.”

“I don’t think that’s really an option for me anymore,” Jon says wearily. Then, choking a little on a sound that wavers between a laugh and a sob, he says, “I don’t think it’s _been_ an option for a while.”

Martin takes a deep, ragged breath. They sit in silence. Jon can’t look at him, at first, but then he finds his eyes straying to the slope of Martin’s cheek, the curl of hair once again falling over his forehead, the slope of his lower lip. He can feel Martin’s eyes on him in return, a prickling flush building at the base of his neck. It’s difficult not to squirm under Martin’s scrutiny, but it’s not like Georgie’s gaze, which had been an uncomfortable but bearable weight. He—he _likes_ the weight of Martin’s gaze, likes that he is looking and being looked upon. A shiver builds at the base of his spine. He feels … safe, with Martin looking at him. He wonders what he must look like, to Martin, and he thinks of the silvering scars scattered along his cheeks and jaw and throat, more obvious than even the worst acne scars; he thinks of the patchy black-and-gray beard; he thinks of the deep bags beneath his eyes and the hollows of his cheekbones; he thinks of meeting his reflection’s eyes.

“Jon,” Martin says quietly, just as Jon’s throat is starting to tighten, “you don’t—you don’t really think that, do you? That you’re—awful to look at?”

Jon struggles to swallow around the tightness of his throat. “Well, I’m hardly _pleasant_ to look at,” he says with a little self-deprecating laugh. “I-I mean.” He gestures vaguely at himself: The vivid scars, the graying hair, the gauntness of his face, the bags beneath his eyes. He shrugs.

“That’s not true,” Martin says. Jon scoffs. “It’s _not_ ,” Martin insists. “Jon, you’re—I mean—ah—you’ve always been, um—” He takes a deep breath. “Jon, you’re _lovely_. Even with—even with the scars.”

Jon huddles into his hoodie, face scorching hot. “Oh,” he manages to say. “I—that’s.” For a moment, looking at Martin, he feels utterly helpless in the face of his sincerity. Distantly, he thinks, _Oh, god_. He clears his throat. “Well. T-thank you. I suppose.” Cringes a little at the stilted, flat way it comes out.

Martin’s face is very pink. “Yeah,” he says, “you’re, um. You’re welcome.” He fiddles with something off-camera, biting at his lower lip for just a moment. “Anyway, I should … I should go. Let you sleep.”

Jon’s shoulders tense. “Are—you’re sure? You don’t have, um, any other questions?”

“No, no I’m—I, I’m good, thanks,” Martin says. “I think I should be all set. You just, um. You just get some rest. Okay?”

“Ah—yes, okay, I’ll try.” Jon fiddles with the seam of the blanket, thumb and forefinger tracing the textured threads. “It was.” He takes a deep breath. “Glad I could help. I—I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You’d better not,” Martin says sternly. “You look like you haven’t slept in a year. I don’t want to see you in the Archives for at least another day.”

“Martin—”

“Jon. _Please_ take care of yourself.”

“I—fine. Fine. _Christ_ ,” Jon adds in a mutter. “You can’t _actually_ stop me from coming in, you know.”

“Maybe not, but I _can_ just pick you up and carry you out if I have to.”

Jon’s lips part. “Ah,” he says, high and unsteady. His hand throbs with pain, and he realizes he’s clutching at his knee. He consciously forces himself to relax his clenched hand, hissing out a slow breath as his burnt palm and fingers flex.

Onscreen, Martin has turned bright red. He stutters a nervous laugh. “Oh, wow, I, um, I definitely need some sleep, too. Didn’t, ah. Didn’t mean to say that.”

“N-no, it’s. Fine. Just a figure of speech, anyway,” Jon says, forcing a chuckle of his own. He thinks it’s a figure of speech, at least.

“No, I—um, no, I was being serious. I-I mean, I could.”

“Oh,” Jon says faintly. He feels a little dizzy. He looks at the shape of Martin beneath his hoodie, the breadth of his shoulders and chest, the softness of his form belaying the strength that must be hidden there. Thinks of the bigness of his hands.

“A-anyway,” Martin stutters. “Um. It’s.” He sighs. Quietly, he says, “It’s really good to have you back.”

Jon swallows. “It’s good to be back,” he says softly. Then, stammering, “I-I mean, despite the … the, um, well, everything else.”

“Right, right,” Martin says.

They lapse into silence.

“Thank you,” Jon murmurs. “For—calling.” Then, fighting to get the words out, “It was—good. To see you.”

Martin’s blush deepens. He raises a hand, pushes that damnable curl off his forehead. “You, too.” Then, softly, “Goodnight, Jon.”

“Goodnight, Martin,” Jon echoes. Martin’s small smile right before the call ends is the loveliest thing he’s seen in ...

Christ. In longer than he can remember.

Jon just sits, for a while, half-formed thoughts flickering at the corners of his mind beneath a layer of static. He rubs absentmindedly at his chest, trying to ease the ache there. He is very aware of his breathing and the tightness in his throat.

Very slowly, feeling more tired than he has any right to after sleeping nearly the whole day, Jon gets to his feet. A little unsteadily, he makes his way out of the living room. He pauses briefly at the foot of the staircase, thinking of Georgie in her little studio, recording the latest episode of _What The Ghost_. He goes so far as to put one foot on the bottom stair, shift his weight forward, before he hesitates and slowly pulls back. He pulls the blanket more firmly around himself and shuffles towards the guest room, shutting the door behind him. The cramped room is barely large enough for the bed, but it’s a comforting smallness. His world has become so much larger than he can comprehend. The familiarity of a tiny London flat is almost a relief.

He collapses onto the bed, not bothering to unwrap himself from the blanket or even attempt to get beneath the covers. Instead, he just lies there, and breathes, and thinks about his pulse throbbing in his throat, and thinks about the earnest expression on Martin’s face when he said he wouldn’t have told anyone, and how quiet and gentle his voice was as he said it was good to talk to Jon, and how sincere his voice was when he’d called Jon _lovely_ , and how pink his cheeks had gone when he’d stammered that he could carry Jon out of the Archives, if he had to, and Jon groans and presses his hot face against the mattress. Even his ears feel warm. He feels sick to his stomach. He doesn’t _want_ this.

Well—no. It’s not that he … _doesn’t_ , exactly. He just _can’t_. There is an apocalypse looming over his head that he doesn’t even know how to begin understanding, and he is, apparently, turning _into_ something that Elias refuses to elaborate on, and he doesn’t have the _time_ to figure out why, exactly, the weight of Martin’s eyes on him makes him feel safe. He can barely feel the shape of the future that looms before him, and … whatever he feels for Martin, it can’t—he won’t—

He won’t _do_ that to Martin. He can’t. Not now. He’s already been responsible for so much of the—the trauma that Martin has endured. He doesn’t deserve—he doesn’t _want_ Martin to have to, to _deal_ with him. Not when Jon is hardly good at, well, _people_ to begin with. He wasn’t exactly a catch even before worms burrowed into him and his hand was set ablaze and a knife was held to his throat, before paranoia and anxiety and terror became as much a part of him as his graying hair. Martin deserves better than that. Martin deserves _safety._ And that—that’s not something Jon can give him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Jon bites at his bottom lip, scraping over the chapped skin. When this is over. _If_ it’s ever over. When Jon can learn how to be a person again. He’d … he’d like that, he thinks. Learning to be a person with Martin. If Martin wanted that, of course, but … Christ, why _would_ he? The way Jon has treated him, Jon is astounded that Martin cares for him at all.

There’s a light knock on the door, three raps. “Jon?” Georgie calls. “You decent?”

Jon lets out a slow breath and pushes himself into a seated position. “In a manner of speaking,” he calls back wryly. The door swings open, revealing Georgie and, twining around her ankles, the Admiral. The Admiral mrrows and leaps up onto the bed before Jon can say hello, pushing his face insistently against Jon’s hand.

“Yes, yes, hello to you, too,” Jon says. He rubs the Admiral’s nose, scratches at his cheek.

“All done with Martin, then?” Georgie asks.

“Ah, yes,” Jon says, heat prickling at his cheeks. He clears his throat. “Did you, ah—need something?”

“Was thinking about ordering Chinese. You want some?”

“Oh, er—yes. The usual. Thank you. I’ll, um, I can pay you back as soon as the paperwork at the Institute goes through?”

“No need. I’m drowning in all that sock money, remember?” Georgie teases. Jon groans. “Anyway, you’ve been keeping my flat cleaner than it’s _ever_ been, so, honestly, it all sort of balances out in the end.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jon says. “I mean, your kitchen _was_ truly horrifying. Think you’ve worked up quite the debt to me.”

Georgie laughs, rolls her eyes as she turns away. “Dickhead,” she tosses over her shoulder fondly. “I’ll just go order, then.”

“Right,” Jon says. Then, fighting to get the words out before she turns the corner, feeling, absurdly, as if he’s not allowed, he says, “Georgie, I—a-about earlier …”

Georgie turns back to him. Raises her eyebrows expectantly. Jon swallows, hard, and continues, “It’s just. If. If there _was_ , ah. Something. With, ah—w-with Martin. Hypothetically. It would be … a bad idea. Right? I mean, considering the—well, everything, I suppose. It’s, i-it’s not exactly the most _appropriate_ time to, uh, t-to pursue … that.” Jon can barely look in Georgie’s direction; staring over her shoulder is almost more than he can stand.

“Maybe,” Georgie says, easily enough. “I mean, it is the end of the world, or something. Maybe there’s not an appropriate time, though. Maybe sometimes you just have to take the chance you’ve got.” She shrugs. “Hypothetically, I mean.”

“Right,” Jon says helplessly. He twists his good hand into the blanket, rubbing it between his knuckles.

Georgie crosses the room and nudges gently at the Admiral, who good-naturedly clambers onto Jon’s lap to make room for Georgie to sit beside him. She swings her legs gently. When she speaks, her voice is very soft. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jon strokes his hand through the Admiral’s fur, feels his purring vibrate up through the delicate bones of his fingers into his wrist. His eyes feel hot. “I don’t know,” he says around the tightness in his throat.

“Okay,” Georgie says. She reaches over, puts her hand over his. Squeezes gently. “When you want to, I’m here.”

Jon swallows. “Yeah. Yes, I—I know. Thank you.”

Georgie squeezes his hand again, then withdraws. “Food will probably be here in forty minutes or so,” she says. “Get some more sleep, okay? You really look like you need it.”

“No promises,” Jon says dully. He smiles wanly at Georgie, and knows he doesn’t do a good job of it. Georgie smiles back, a worried dimple between her eyebrows, and then she leaves the room. The Admiral jumps off Jon’s lap to dash after her, and Georgie’s startled laughter as he weaves through her ankles makes Jon’s shoulders relax. The door clicks shut behind them, and Jon is, once again, alone.

Jon hugs his knees to his chest and thinks, tries not to think, about Martin. Tentatively, he touches the fingers of his good hand to his mouth. Just feeling his own shaky breathing against his skin. Then he swallows hard and curls his hand into a fist tight enough for his fingernails to dig into his palm.

It doesn’t matter what he wants. Jon can’t _afford_ to want. And Martin … he deserves better.

But—afterward. When the Unknowing has been stopped, and Jon is a person again, and they’re _safe_. Then, maybe. Maybe then.

Jon touches his knuckles to his mouth and smiles, a small, hidden thing, a promise of potential. And then, very carefully, he tucks that potential into the back of his mind. Keeping it safe for another day.


End file.
